


French Food

by spatialsoloist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anderson is the crappy nurse, Gen, and Sherlock is a doctor, sassy John is sassy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:29:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spatialsoloist/pseuds/spatialsoloist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to cook himself some escargot, gives himself terrible stomach cramps, lands himself in the hospital and then lands himself a hot doctor with a dick personality. Great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	French Food

**Author's Note:**

> For Sam, who's not feeling very well.
> 
> (Hope you're having fun with all those hot doctors in the hospital, senpai. Heh heh.)

When Molly loaned him her _100 Do-It-Yourself French Dishes_ , she probably didn’t mean for John to pick it up, flip to the page labeled _L’Escargot_ , accidentally pick out bad snails from Tesco and then spend the rest of the night vomiting into the toilet he’d forgotten to clean earlier this week. Thus, after an emergency call to his flat mate Greg (who wasn’t pleased to have his date interrupted), John found himself curled up under the crisp white sheets feeling like somebody was clawing at his insides with a rake.

John hated hospitals. The last time he was in one, he was eight and had broken his left ankle playing football. After a screaming match with his parents, he’d broken his other ankle trying to escape by climging out of the window. Somehow, he doesn’t see himself making a bold bid for freedom in this state though.

The curtain slides back and a pale-faced, mousey-haired intern shuffled in, fiddling with his clipboard and John’s IV line. An awkward silence falls between them, punctured only by beeping machines and the occasional gurgle from John’s stomach. Oh, awkward, awkward, awkward…

“Anything else bothering you, Mr. Watson?”

John jumped. “Oh, uh, nothing. And don’t call me Mr. Watson, man, I’m not actually that old.”

The intern shrugged, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Doctor-patient thing, man,” he muttered. “The head doc around here is real anal about rules and everything.”

John raised an eyebrow. “The head doctor.”

The intern looked up, glancing furtively side to side. “Yeah, man,” he whispered, lowering his voice in a conspiring tone. “He’s a real nightmare, he is. He runs this place like a slave-driver. Everything has to be neat and tidy and super precise. He’s like a super control freak, and he hates everybody.”

“Even you?” John asked, amused.

“ _Especially_ me,” the intern hissed. “The guy’s got this bullshit radar or something, though. He always manages to catch me just when I’m screwing up, even if it’s by accident. It’s like he’s watching me or something—”

“Or maybe,” a deep and definitely annoyed voice sounded from beside the curtain, “You’re not as quiet as you think you might be, Anderson.”

Anderson leapt a foot into the air, thrusting his clipboard in front of him like a shield. John’s jaw unhinged slightly as a tall, pale man with wavy brown hair breezed into the cramped space around the hospital bed, leaving the fluttering hospital curtains in his wake. His white coat hugged broad shoulders and biceps rather enticingly, and John found himself swallowing tightly.

“Doctor Holmes,” Anderson spluttered, slowly attempting to ease his way out. “I was just checking up on Mr. Watson.”

“Sure you were, Anderson, and may I remind you that no matter how _anal_ I am about the rules and what a _nightmare_ I am and how my _control freak_ tendencies seem annoy you, I am the one doing your final evaluation. So, a little peace and quiet from you would be much desirable unless you want to fail medical school.”

If John’s jaw wasn’t grazing the ground before, it sure was now. Beside him, Anderson looked torn between being stricken and exploding with anger. Doctor Holmes walked around, picking up John’s medical records and flipping through them with apparent interest. A moment later, he glanced up and shot Anderson a glare.

“What the hell are you still doing here? Get lost, Anderson, and finish off your rounds.”

Anderson didn’t need telling twice; he bolted like a rabbit with a fox on its tail, leaving the two of them alone. John blinked, a line creasing his forehead as he frowned.

“You heard Anderson calling you anal.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop himself, but Doctor Holmes barely spared him a glance, apparently still attached to the papers.

“What about it?”

“Well, Anderson called you an anal freak at the beginning of our, uh, conversation. So that means you’ve been hanging around the curtain _listening_ in on us from the start. Is that what doctors do nowadays? Listen in on their patient’s conversations?”

Doctor Holmes finally looked up at John at those words, a dry smile on his face. “You two seemed really into your conversation. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

John scoffed loudly, crossing his arms. “ _Or_ you could have done a more honourable thing and, I don’t know, cough or something so the poor guy could just make his escape?”

“There’s nothing honourable about Anderson,” Doctor Holmes muttered. “He’s a slimy git.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to humiliate him.”

“I’m not humiliating him. If you haven’t noticed, he was talking smack about me.”

“Well, seeing how you treated him, you’re not the nicest bloke out there anyway.”

Doctor Holmes laughed. “Really? What gave it away?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John shrugged, pretending to contemplate the thought. “Maybe the way you sneak around and poke fun at your interns? Do you talk about your patients behind our backs as well?”

“Only the really rude ones.”

“Do I constitute as rude?”

“You talk like a complete prat,” Doctor Holmes said, walking up beside John’s bed. “But I can’t say that I’m much better person than you.”

“Huh,” John grinned. “At least you admit that.”

Doctor Holmes smirked and fixed him with a searing look. “Yes, I can,” he murmured. “And you’ve got a way around words too, I must say. Even if you’ve apparently dehydrated yourself by throwing up so many times in the last hour.”

“Don’t even mention that,” John groaned, covering his eyes as his stomach let out another embarrassing gurgle. “Honestly, it must be the painkillers that are making me loopy right now. I don’t normally lash out at people I just met, especially my doctor.”

“Well, I do tend to have that effect on people,” Doctor Holmes shrugged. “Either way, you’re here for the night anyway, though you’ll probably be fit to leave tomorrow morning. Nothing to worry about, it’s a passing bug.”

“Thank god, I hate hospitals,” John said fervently, making Doctor Holmes snicker.

“That I can also tell. Enjoy your stay then, Mr. Watson.”

“For fuck’s sake,” John grumbled. “Call me John, you don’t look older than me either. I hate all that ‘Mr. Watson’ crap.”

“Didn’t Anderson tell you about my whole doctor-patient policy?” Doctor Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Right,” John sighed, rolling his eyes. “Doctor-patient policy—”

“But…” Doctor Holmes continued, dropping the papers down by the bedside table, “I’m Sherlock, if you’re wondering.”

At those words, John found himself grinning in spite of everything. “Well, mostly nice to meet you, Sherlock. Fancy a cuppa down at the hospital café after this mess?”

 “Coffee down there’s absolute bollocks.”

“Can’t be worse than expired escargot.”

Sherlock grinned, pausing by the curtains. “Probably,” he said, before disappearing behind the blinds and leaving John alone with his pounding heart, warbling stomach and all.

* * *

“You are absolutely right, this coffee is shite,” John spluttered, making a face at the cup of steaming black coffee on the grimy café table. Sitting across from him, Sherlock laughed.

“Should’ve listened to your doctor, John,” he teased, expertly dodging a kick to the shin from under the table.

(When Molly loaned him her _100 Do-It-Yourself French Dishes_ , she probably didn’t mean for John to pick it up, flip to the page labeled _L’Escargot_ , accidentally pick out bad snails from Tesco and then spend the rest of the night vomiting into the toilet he’d forgotten to clean earlier this week.

She also probably didn’t mean for her friend to end up going on a date with his hot, kind of a prat, but also kind of nice doctor, and, well. Things don’t always go to plan.

And that may be a very, very good thing.)


End file.
